


means of catharsis

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, oh you know... the intimacy of being held in moments of pain... the works, post-159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You’d think – you’d that at this point nightmares would be second nature for me, hm?” Martin says, forcing a smile even as he tugs the blanket tighter around his trembling shoulders.It’s meant to be a bit funny. Instead of laughing, though, Jon frowns.“No,” he says simply, and matter-of-factly wipes the moisture from Martin’s cheeks with a tissue like he’s a crying child.Prompt: Jon comforting Martin from nightmares.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 9
Kudos: 247





	means of catharsis

“You’d think – you’d that at this point nightmares would be second nature for me, hm?” Martin says, forcing a smile even as he tugs the blanket tighter around his trembling shoulders.

It’s meant to be a bit funny. Instead of laughing, though, Jon frowns.

“No,” he says simply, and matter-of-factly wipes the moisture from Martin’s cheeks with a tissue like he’s a crying child.

Martin’s face burns. There’s a unique embarrassment to this – the feeling of being fussed over, _coddled,_ especially from Jon of all people. He knows he’s the worrywart of the two (though Jon has a lot more anxiety in him than most people assume), he shouldn’t be talking, but… Jon won’t even give him the courtesy of laughing at his dark, dumb, I’m-having-a-breakdown-and-if-I-don’t-laugh-I’ll-cry jokes and it all kind of rubs salt in the wound.

 _Worth a shot_ , he thinks glumly, but Tim was always better at redirecting the – well, he hates this word, but – the _trauma_ with humor. Or maybe, y’know, Martin’s just not funny. That’s also an option.

That’s what the nightmare had been about. Tim, that is. Probably. It’s still quite hard to parse what exactly goes on in Martin’s dreams. Oh, in the moment, they are _vivid_ – horribly, terribly so, to the point where he’s startled awake more than once on the fringe of dreaming and spent the morning unable to differentiate reality from the fog of nightmares – but when he wakes, only dregs of the fear and adrenaline remain. It’s still horrible. He just doesn’t have anything specific to point to, so it’s just a smidgen worse.

He remembers running, though, so it was probably the Prentiss dream again? It all feels like such a long time ago, now. But he still dreams about that. Mostly because Martin _still_ feels guilty about it, and it’s not as if he’s gotten to talk about it to anyone in the meantime.

Well, no one, except Jon. But that’s a recent development. And – and, well, Martin _knows_ he should be talking to Jon about _stuff_ , they’re _dating_ , it’s just… not something he’s used to at the best of times. Physically painful at worst.

Speaking of Jon, he’s been sitting next to Martin, clearly unsure of how to advance things. Martin’s still sniffling (though the tea has helped with the trembles) and probably looks a mess, all tears and snot and hair spilling into his eyes; it’s not like he’s had time to _fix it_. He wishes he could just… put this down. Go back to bed. Deal with it in the morning or next week or never. He’s _tired_.

Jon squeezes Martin’s shoulder, and Martin smiles in spite of himself (it’s awkward, Jon’s grip hurts a little, but it’s affection, and that’s enough).

“Is the tea alright?”

Martin swallows thickly, gripping the mug to himself for the warmth. “Y-yeah.”

“Okay. Just…tell me if you need anything.” He glances up at Martin, more than a little awkwardly. “I’m bad at this,” he says, as if to explain.

Martin snorts. “Don’t – don’t say that.”

“I _am_ ,” Jon insists, and Martin is about to scold him before he looks up at him – there’s no actual self-loathing, just a mild, open expression – he might just be saying it to make Martin feel better. Warmth bubbles up in him, and Martin smiles for real.

“Well… maybe,” he admits. “But you’re trying, y’know, I… I appreciate that.” He leans against Jon’s frame, it’s a bit lopsided considering the height difference, but comforting all the same. “No one used to do this stuff.”

“Mmh.” He can’t see Jon from this angle. _Good_ , a part of his brain thinks, but – no. That part of his life is over. He’s not going to keep in the corners, watching Jon from afar as if he’s some distant, unreachable object – Jon’s… _here_ , and he _likes_ Martin and it’s not just a thing out of _obligation._ It’s… Martin can let himself be taken care of, it’s _fine._ It’s fine.

“Do you… need to talk about it?” Jon asks.

Martin mulls it over.

“I don’t really remember my dreams that well,” he explains apologetically. “Even if I tried, I don’t think I could…”

Jon puts a hand over his. “Perhaps just, er, saying what comes to mind would help. Better than not talking at all.”

“I… Maybe. But are you sure? Is that okay?”

“Of _course_ , Martin,” Jon sighs with a hint of derision that makes Martin flinch – before he clears his throat and reinstates, much softer: “of course.”

So Martin talks. Talks about Tim, and the worms, and Jane, before that morphs into his time with Peter Lukas, a few time even dipping into _those_ recollections Martin sealed away and promised himself never to tell – the ones about his mother, those terrible memories smudged and warped by dreams into abstract lumps of _grief._ It starts out slow, and plodding, reminiscent of the first terrible, rambling statement Martin had ever given at the Institute. But these words aren’t being drawn out of him.

Jon doesn’t coerce him. He sits, lets Martin hold his hand and pets his hair absentmindedly as the words start to flow more and more, faster and faster, doesn’t complain even when the tears start again – until Martin is back on the brink of sleep. Exhausted, but not hollow. That’s a new feeling, too.

He looks toward Jon, barely able to keep his eyes open. “How’d you do that…?”

“Do what?”

“You…” Martin yawns, and presses closer to Jon’s warmth, “how you make me feel better. What’s the magic.”

Jon shrugs. “I just listened. Nothing extraordinary.”

 _You’re_ extraordinary _,_ Martin wants to say, but he’s already slipping back into blissful, dreamless sleep. Vaguely he can feel a blanket being tugged over him as he slumps back onto the mattress, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my writing/tma tumblr, @prentissed


End file.
